Writing Prompt

I use the app Loop Journal, and one day it invited me to begin a story with this sentance. The rest is history and took me 10 minutes. XD

” ‘Suddenly the door opens itself…’ That’s a rubbish way to start any book,” Sidney grumbled to himself. The line was mercilessly hacked out, and he tried to start again. It was a chilly blue and peach evening in late fall, and Sidney Meyhew, late of Kings Cross, was now merely late at turning in a new first chapter to his who-dun-it. Ghostwriting is never glamorous work, especially not for sweaty asthmatic British transplants who find themselves in Boring City, Michigan after London proved inconquerable.

But Sidney had a dream.

He wanted to write an epic modern novel, detailing the pathos and ecstasy of one man’s journey into becoming the woman he always wanted to be. He wanted to write a first hand account of the life of a transwoman and how she finds love after finding herself. The only problem with this dream, the problem which kept dragging him out of bed to beat his head against the floor, was the fact that he didn’t know the first thing about transwomen. How did you spot one? Was it polite to ask? Were they all simplified drag queens? What would he need to do to gain access to the inner sanctum of a diva’s precious journey of burgeoning womanhood? And why, ye gods, did he have to have THIS inescapable idea as the impetus for his magnum opus?

The thorny prickles of these various conundrums had lately been driving Sidney to the conclusion that it was all going to boil down to one thing: fitting in.

To meet a transwoman, he was going to have to become one himself.

If asked, he couldn’t tell you how he’d arrived at this conclusion.

But just this evening, banging away on an old DOS computer his gran kept on her draughty porch, it was the biggest thing on his mind.

Not consciously, you understand.

No, consciously he was dealing with the agony of sweating in 50 degree weather, being outside because Gran was cooking cabbage again, and trying to make his book behave and make sense.

But subconsciously, the Rolodex of his mind was ticking methodically over his options and pragmatically continuing to arrive at the same conclusion. To write his book, he had to know. To know, he must ask. To ask, he must not look stupid. To avoid stupidity, he must fit in. To fit in, he had to become a woman.
I’m sure by this point my reader will be wondering why Sidney did not choose to write the book about himself, but I am merely his biographer, not his apologist. If you ask me, it was damn silly of him not to recognize this as soon as you did.

Perhaps it was because Sidney Augustus Meyhew was, at the moment, the antithesis of elegant transwomanhood. Picture if you will, and if you’d prefer not to I entirely understand, a man well past 30 but not entirely ready to concede to 40 and frantically reaching for the brakes.

Hairy legs, pale and fidgety, stumping out from underneath billowy cotton drawers in a faded print. Pudgy and double curved, stomach meticulously tucked inside, an undershirt sagging for the floor struggles bravely against the forces of gravity and cheaply labored cotton. Grandad’s old maroon dressing gown keeps the neighbors from complaining from the back, and from the front there is only the dull glow of the computer to witness the sloping tragedy of a sad and manly clavicle in full bushy bloom, with a chin mysteriously free of even a shadow of hair. The fact that his cheeks were as smooth as a woman’s sometimes gave Sidney a bit of theatrical excitement toward his aforementiomed plot, until he realized that from the neck down he resembled a wire brush put through a bark chipper. Morosely then, notice with Sidney his sparse eyebrows and Roman nose, watery hazel eyes, and surprisingly luxuriant bouffant of ginger hair. From the neck up he really could have swung it, he thought. He’d seen women at the market, some of them no better looking than he!

But as for the walking carpet that was the rest of him…

This is why he stuck to ghostwriting.


I can’t call this “The Meaning of Life” without rolling my eyes

I saw some kind of motivational spiel on YouTube last year. About how to know your purpose in life in five minutes.
The guy said, “Imagine that you’re going to die in three months. Get quiet with yourself. What would you want to spend those last three months doing?”
Honestly, my answer has not changed much. I think about this, sometimes.

I think about death and passage a lot. Well, probably just more so than the average person. I consider myself a witch, but not completely. I’m not Pagan, just not my cuppa, and don’t have any solid core practices really. So I prefer to leave the full on identity of the term Witch to those who I personally feel have earned it… 

It sounds pretentious in the extreme to write aloud, but privately I tend to refer to myself as a Shadowseer.

And as one who is more comfortable dealing in betweens and endings, I find myself thinking about Death. 

The other white meat. XD

Death is a part of Life. Not something to be afraid of…
Not that, on occasion, I haven’t found myself “raging against the dying of the light”. I’m still human, after all. I think? lol
But mostly, I would welcome it… Like, fuckin’ BOOM. The worst is over. Finally at peace. No more questions, and no more striving. And either deciding to do it all the fuck over again, or re-joining the Light…

You would not believe how joyfully and blandly I’m saying this. 

I’m not depressed. Not suicidal.

(Well… No more so than any other mother of a two-year-old who is currently sick! LOL)
Blah. Back to the topic.
So. What would you do if you found out you only had three months to live?

The biggest thing that would upset me and drive me would be that I couldn’t be there for my daughter when she’s older. It’s a frustrating dichotomy, and not something that I’m really inviting opinion on, but I find these early years so incredibly taxing to put up with. I’ve always looked forward to helping her grow more as she gets older. But these first years, man? They’re for the birds. (YesIKnowTheyAreFoundationalShaddup)
Honestly… I would probably just do what I’m doing now. It sounds silly, but I’m assembling books and Tumblr articles and writing out my own thoughts to become an anthology of wisdom and knowledge about the world. Things I had to come to late in life, truths I had to relearn. 

I want them to be hers from the get-go. I want her to know her potential as a woman, the history of the women before and around her, that she’s powerful and strong and brave and capable and smart and made of magic. And that every other fucking person on the planet is too. That they are worthy of compassion and kindness, or correction if others need to be protected from them. 
Truly, I feel OK about my own life. What I have done, what I have learned, what I have experienced. It’s hers that drives me now… I wouldn’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything to die in three months except getting to help her.

Wow. That actually made me cry. Alrighty then.
(And believe me, I have thought all of the materialistic and hedonistic thoughts. I’m no saint. Honestly, maybe I’m just lazy, but I would rather experience vacations on Bora-Bora and in the Alps zooming around in my astral body thankyouverymuch.)
So, I write. And to have more things to write about, I keep expanding my mind, keep expanding my experiences. The more people I meet, the more people I love, the more people whose stories I hear… Everyone has something to share with me, everyone leaves a fingerprint on me somewhere. And it expands me, makes me a more understanding and compassionate person. And gives me perspective that I can pass on to her.
Some of this sounds very unfeeling and unmaternal to my ears. I don’t know why… Yes I do. Because this wasn’t how my mom loved. Rather than focusing on what she got wrong, I will say the one thing that she did right that I want to do. 

“Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean that you won’t enjoy it. I was afraid of ________, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.”

As my mom gets older, and we grow further and further apart, I get to know the reality of her passing on. Probably before I will, but who knows? But these two things, these are the lights in my heart that I bear from her. These are what I am eternally grateful to her for.
C.S. Lewis said that Love is a steady wish for the Loved person’s highest good, as far as it can be obtained. 

That’s what I have for my daughter.
But… I have to be careful. I have to be careful that I don’t insert what I believe to be the highest good over what her own soul and the Universe know. So I want to collect Everything. I just… I want to lay the world at her feet. Teach her how to read it. Then let her become the glorious dragon – butterfly I know she is.
And hey! If I’m going to be writing down all this shit for her, maybe I can help a few other people along the way…

That’s what lights me up. Several garage parking floors below being there for my daughter, but the thought of helping other people grow and get free and fall in love with themselves? 
That’s the good life!!!! 🙂



My America

My America is mixed up.

And messed up.

For me, the two are very different things.

(Pic taken by me, of a sign that gripped my attention outside a market in Portland)

In my head, my heart, and my perception for most of my life, it is just mixed. Like a milkshake.

Whenever I see an ad, a TV show or movie, or a group of friends together, and there is a mix of genders, ethnicities, fashion, skin and hair, tastes, abilities… 

That is my America. It is what I have always seen this country to be, the gift it is to the world, though now I am painfully aware this is not the reality many face. 

I know now the horrors of too-recent Jim Crow, the appalling behavior of Trump supporters, the absymal lack of regard for indigenous peoples, and the deep pain faced by members of the SAGA (sexuality and gender awareness) community.

But as messed up as this all is, I believe our America WANTS to just be mixed. Colors and flavors and languages all stirred together and, complex as it is, harmonizing because of that very unity. America has a soul, IS a soul. Something like an ethereal Lady Liberty. And she’s so PROUD of every single one of her children for their very diversity!!

I grew up the youngest of five children.

My three older siblings were adopted, there was never any confusion or hiddenness about that in my family. And we celebrated their dates of adoption as much as their birth dates. My oldest sister is half Iranian. My oldest brother is a Caucasian presenting American mutt with French ancestry. My older sister is from Seoul, South Korea, and appears to have some African DNA.

My blood brother and I are the combined products of Irish and German immigrants and Luxembourgish immigrants. He is dark complected, I fair. He takes after our mother and her family, I our father. We look nothing alike for many years, and even got mistaken as dating. I couldn’t even depend on looks to prove I was related to someone, and that planted a very special seed deep in my heart about our human connection to one another.

I grew up eating bulgogi, hummus, and saffron chicken, hearing German shouted across the house for please and thank you, counting to 10 in 4-5 different languages, and knowing that, no matter our skin differences and parental origins, my sisters ARE my sisters. I grew up trying on saris, kimono, drindl, overalls, and peasant blouses. I grew up wishing I could be Lieutenant Ohoura and devestated when my imagination was shamed for not taking her skin color into account.

I guess I’m a unicorn.  Skin color was only important to me because I thought the varieties it could take were so very beautiful. I still do.

Ive been reminded lately to promote what you love instead of bashing what you hate.

So rather than keep saying what’s so very very messed up in my America today, I want to weave with my words the way I see a MIXED America.

My America is the old fellow with silvery coils of hair and handsome cocoa skin, dressed up in his Army finest for the Veteran’s Day parade, marching step by step beside his husband. Because they could finally have that wedding they planned in Normandy.

My America is the punk rock princess with slanted eyes and scars from heart surgery, cooing over her best friend’s baby because she wont have any herself but still thinks they are cute. She already lost her mom to breast and uterine cancer, so she made her peace, thanked her gods, and had everything removed. Her album is getting released, tour dates set, and she couldn’t be happier.

My America is a lad turning lady, peppered with freckles, admiring his instep in the heels of his new dancing shoes. They are six inches tall, and that pole will be HIS tonight. Before he puts on his scrubs and works the night shift to clean up gunshot wounds. His physical completion to match outside with inside is one surgery that will just have to wait.

My America is the beautiful woman with bouncing curves and ginger curls, swinging her tap shoes over her shoulder as she walks into the lab to invent the next robotic arm.

My America is the soft spoken husband and wife from Arkansas who moved to Alaska in search of a logging job. They have a baby boy, and love football and coffee. The wife is blind.

My America is four kids, all girls, and no mother. She left. And Daddy’s ok. He brushes hair, ties shoes, cooks and cleans, and writes a blog for a living. Those girls aren’t missing out on any love or attention.

My America is not English. It’s smiles as you both stammer and gesture and pantomime and point. 

My America is not white. It’s a rainbow. For Everyone.

My America lives in wheelchairs and dreams in rocketships.

My America is new to Syrian children, old to the descendants of Plymouth Rock and Jamestown.

My America displays her hope for her children in the curve and swell of mountains, the dip of valleys, the rush of rivers, the climb of forests, the soar of sky and the space of plains.

My America is showing us the way.

If our America is from snowy gold Alaska to dusky Arizona, from misty Maine to Florida and Cali to Tennessee, if She is so diverse but UNIFIED, dont you think we should be?

This is my belief, my firm belief since infancy, a reality that is challenged every time I hear another attrocity or rudeness less perpetrated but perPETUATED in the name of American greatness.

I am a child of the 90’s. Diversity is in my blood. American Greatness is in the strength of individuals with nothing in common, coming together in such a place on earth as beautifully different as they are, and saying “We choose to have something in common! We choose to unify, and say we are all in this together! We choose to be Americans!”

That is my America. I pray for her, as she is martyred and misrepresented, her welcoming bosom barred and her children hating in the streets and courtrooms.

I offer these verses to soothe my country’s soul, to refresh her, to share with anyone who will listen that we CAN be great, TOGETHER.


Why I Am Shaving My Head

More people than ever are experiencing alopecia. Hair loss from drugs, chemo, cancer, chronic illness, hormonal imbalance.

I am priveleged that my mane is  thick and healthy, an adaptable color and medium wave. I am very blessed, and I know that. I want to know some of how the other half lives.

It’s also a reclaiming for me.

Historically, and still in some parts of the world, to shave the head of a woman is one step removed from rape. It is a sign of humiliation and shame, a taking by force of something she values, stripping dignity. A man can do it in a fit of moral passion and still sleep at night. 

It was meant to brand the “wayward woman”, the rebel. The social outcast. The less-than. The UnWoman.

Come on, baby, light my fire…

I have talked to women who are in relationships where the other person will literally not allow them to cut their hair, or has such strong opinions about its beauty value and what the loss of it would be that the woman is too afraid to lose their appeal or worth in that person’s eyes.

I have been that woman.

I have hidden behind my hair, distracted myself with updating it when I couldnt or wouldnt change other things in my life that needed attention.

I have tried more products, styles, changes, and accessories than I care to count. A lot of them worked for me! I am priveleged with great hair, I can carry off a variety of styles and looks. Almost everything looks good on me.

I don’t know if it’s because of the amount of blessing or not, but for me my hair has been both a canvas of experimentation and a visible barometer of my internal journey. So if I feel my hair is not reflecting my state-of-soul, I get dissatisfied.

Until recently when I figured this out, I just thought I was a flighty and shallow, insecure bitch!! And so have a lot of hair stylists and probably my husband, LOL! 

Also…I’m kinda just done. Not even pixie-cut done, SHAVE done.

I have really thick hair. REALLY THICK. I get flaky scalp, oily sebum stuff that gets under my nails, and after the first day post shower it just ends up pulled back, out of the way. And then I get headaches and tender scalp because it’s so heavy.

My hair is in my way.

I am a mother of a toddler. Or should I say, tugger.

I want some freedom.

Also, I’d like to switch it up and spend more time with makeup when I go out because I KNOW what my hair is doing! 

This hair has been with me through some of the most stressful times of my life, to date. It and my cells are carrying the memory of that.

I can’t slough off all my old cells, though they will all be replaced within a year. Except for my hair… that I can chose to part with, now.

So many cultures have traditions of hair cutting. For grief, repentance, marriage, shame, new beginnings.

I ran across a quote on Pinterest, “A woman who changes her hair is about to change her life.”

And I am.

I want to finally get back to my art post-baby.

I want, for the first time in my LIFE, to join a gym.

I am finally in a new state for the first time, away from parents and friends and anyone who knows me or expects anything of it.

Yes, my husband (a cis hetero man) is complaining. I really do have awesome hair, and I know that. But, he also understands. He has shaved his head multiple times, and is encouraging me out the other side of his mouth to go for it and experience it. 

I have amazing eyes, flawless ears, good skin, a dramatic mouth, and (hopefully) enough chutzpah to carry this off. 🙂

Plus, he might do it with me!!

So, in a sacred (and slightly scared) act of female empowerment and hair activism, I will be learning to love myself for what is there without anything to hide behind or blame.

It will free me to shower more and care for my skin alone, decorate my face, explore core confidence, change my style and habits, embrace new routines and develop my body’s potential for beauty.

As it grows, I hope to have an entirely natural hair care routine, along with brushing and oiling and many fun cuts along the way!

I am excited to learn and love my hair from the roots upward. 🙂

Have you ever engaged in a drastic hairstyle change? How did it make you feel? What, if anything, did it change for you?



Why the Term ‘Psychic Medium’ Matters to Me

“Be who you were before they told you what to be.”

I have always been claircognizant/clairvoyant. Sometimes clairaudient.

I have experienced mediumship.

All while under the umbrella of traditional Christianity.

I didn’t go looking for it, far from it. I was terrified of sinning, lol.

It started when I was 17. The majority of that year, I delved into things that only now in 2016-17 I’m finally getting back to. 

It was my spiritual birthright, the natural progression I took while dedicated to Love and curious about Life, being carefully led to each experience by the Creator and what guides and angels were assigned me. Thought it was all “Him” at the time. 🙂

After I turned 18, I let other people take the reins of my spiritual development for a time. I wanted to learn from them, and I did. I grew a lot, and I’m grateful.

But in a few instances, the times my gifts tried to show up in my own way, they were met with the same reaction (albeit toned down) that those who walk with the clairs have be given for time out of mind.

One of the biggest things I was told is that words like telepathy didn’t honor God. And I was impressed with the opinion that those gifts I was talking about experiencing hadn’t been fully submitted and purified so I needed to be careful with them.

Do these words sound familiar?

I’m so sorry. It can take a lot to get them out of your ears and heart, to open up to the free flow you once trusted implicitly and blessed many in.

But my friend, I’m so very glad you at least found your way here. You are not and never have been alone.

Love is Love. Evil cannot own that. Ever. A gift is a gift.

Criteria: is it bringing you and or the person you are sharing with closer to the Light, to Love, growth, or peace? Does your gift move you to more compassion and understanding for your fellow humans?

That’s it.

If you’re curious about opening back up to those woo-woo experiences again, (and YAY!!) I’ll list some websites and their owners who have helped me a lot.

•Amanda Linette Meder, Medium

•Sarah Petruno Shamanism

•Intuitive Souls Blog

•Roxie Hunt’s Season of the Witch interviews on HowToHairGirl.com

I heard once that the original Christ-ians may have chosen (and may choose again) to indentify with that word BECAUSE it was meant as a slur. They wore it like a badge.

I feel the same way about Witch, Psychic, and Medium.

I used to believe people who identified that way were in the services of Evil. Thanks to Hollywood and cultural norms, that they were creepy, crazy, fake, harmful, intimidating, no-good, dirty, manipulative, scoundrels. And did I mention fake? 

And that, no matter what, if you wanted to call yourself that or operate that way, you had to renounce Jesus.

That’s totally bogus, by the way. Christian Witches are a thing, Anglican Druids, Spiritual Mediums, even Athiest Psychics! I could go on all day because only YOU can tell the world who you are and how you are going to walk in that gift.

The only thing that truly matters, I feel, is connecting with your heart and whatever guides or tools you use for your clients highest and best good.

For me, now, to take on these names is to walk in those shoes fully. Not letting myself off easy by calling myself simply an Intuitive Reader.

If you are in a position or conviction where you do not embrace these names, more power to ya! Authenticity is best. Do what you can Real-ly embody. 🙂

The more I learn about science, from Tesla and Einstein to quantum physics, the more I understand what witches, shamans, and mediums have been doing all this time!! It’s amazing!! MAGIC IS REAL!! The Secret, Law of Attraction, Numerology, tuning into the energy signature of a person or animal whose matter has passed on… it’s all REAL!!

And like anything, it is NOT inheirantly Evil. Pretty much nothing is, it’s all about the heart intention of the individual going into it that colors the result.

Oh, and then the perception of the individuals witnessing the result. Perspective is everything.

So, I choose to call myself a Witch and a Psychic Medium to open dialogue about all that Is, and as a service to those who came before me, misunderstood, to educate those who are willing to hear now about the science behind Magic.
Cheers to many paths and deeper understanding. 🙂


Womb Words: Same moon, different world

This is not the world of our ancestors. It is far removed from the world of our grandparents. And now, we must at least acknowledge that this is not even the world of our mothers anymore.

You know the issues. You have seen them, have them, heard about them.

CHILDREN having severe eczema when they have been exclusively breastfed and mom was on an organic allergen-free diet throughout pregnancy and postpartum. WHAT THE HECK.

Childhood obesity, childhood diabetes. PCOS, Endometriosis, thyroid and postpartum issues out the wazzoo…
If I didn’t know any better, I would say women and children are under attack.
I don’t negate or ignore what men are experiencing. The prostate, thyroid, adrenal, heart, kidney, muscular, developmental, and sexual malfunction in our world today are INSANE. Not to mention cancer.
Some people try, so very hard! Eat this not that, exercise and detox… And still get nailed. Others dont try at all and seem to be healthy as horses until they drop. But now, even the “I can do and eat anything” supergiants like my dad are showing chinks in their armor. 
The things coming at us today are like nothing the world has ever faced.
We don’t have the cushion of time to prepare for hard news when it can be texted to us. (Break-ups?)

And our adrenal glands have a difficult enough task sorting out if the stressful and violent things we see in the news and on tv or movies have happened to us in reality. Our adrenals can even be confused by dreams, the original virtual reality. When you see footage of bombings, riots, abuse, fighting, your body literally thinks you experienced it. Because you are taking it in through your eyes, on the screen of your mind…
Teenagers are exhibiting the amount of stress associated with mental patients in 1950.
Speaking of the 50’s, back then folks used to laugh an average of 18 minutes total per day. Now? It’s closer to 7 minutes.
Simple farm foods like fruits, vegetables, even water can be tainted or carrying disease, toxins, and worse into our bodies as we attempt to heal and nourish them.
The oh so informed “They” are wondering if this will be the first generation to preceed their parents in death.*

Light pollution in most places is interferring with the moon’s light. 

This affects us because that natural glow and its changing course (plus gravity field) used to be the guide by which the bodies of women regulated the menstrual cycle. It was a near given that on the full moon, give or take a day or two, every women who could bleed did. For just 3 days usually, together. 

But due to isolation, insulation, and hormonal interferance through drugs, chemicals, and food, there is now at least one woman menstruating every minute of every day! 

Imagine the difference our planet can sense in that…
This also means that natual family planning is much harder for the modern woman since that regular means of prediction is out the window. It used to be so intuitive, something solid to set your clock by. What must that have been like, right??!! 

Granted there have always been women experiencing difficulty with their cycles, whether unable to concieve or carry to term and have a healthy delivery.

And for that, there were the midwives. The wise women. The “yarb (herb) women”. The witches.
Massage, prayer, grounding, herb teas and baths and tinctures. Accupressure, sexual positions, healing foods and restorative movement, these were the tools of the midwives and witches who tended the health, birth, and death of the world for centuries.

Whatever you have heard before about these women, their societies, and their practices, I want to offer you more.

I have studied natural healing remedies in both a modern setting and what historical information can be found. I have pieced together this archetype of Witch, Midwife, Wise Woman from commentary, social studies, history, and finally by analyzing the psychology behind where we used to be and where we are today.
Something important to be known is that the term Witch didnt used to be a bad thing. Not until the odious spread of the Christian church under Constantine, threats of “assimilate or die” cheerfully handed down to the local culture being conquered. There are almost too many threads to pull when it comes to this loaded term and its turbulent history, but until I can cover them all or you uncover them on your own, just imagine feeling the same way about the word “doctor” as you do witch. Hard, huh? One conjours up images of a peaceful and compassionate person who knows what ails you and fixes it as quickly as they can. The other is a germy figure in a haze of superstition and misinformation, grasping at straws and demanding your respect and obedience regardless of the outcome or they will make your life miserable. That’s been my experience with a lot of doctors, anyway. 

Yep, first one is Witch for me.
Moving on! The Archetype of Witch or Wise Woman can be seen as the “average”. Not every one knew everything, some more and some less. Some we better equipped, others more knowledgable. So I refer then to the collective They.

When these women were the default village “healer”, they and the moon knew the paths of a woman’s body. They knew, handed down and from exploration or experience, how to make a pregnancy succeed by strengthing the womb and regulating the ovaries. They could soothe a sick baby, speed and ease delivery of one, help a woman avoid pregnancy if she wished or needed to, make comfortable the aged and terminal, and soothe the dying on their way.

They often knew more about sex than the average person, particularly solitary exploration for more pleasure than procreation. Consumed with survival and work, most people didnt have time to lift their head for study or learning, beyond their own craft and home needs. And parents taught children, so the ignorance perpetuated unless you went to the wise woman. 

Another thing the witches knew was how to control the womb that had gone ahead with its design and was knitting human tissue that wasn’t welcome. See my previous post on herbal abortion.

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t anyone else’s business.

(Quite often in those days women wouldnt tell their husband they were expecting until it was far enough along to be sure. The manual labor aspect of life in those days made it a chancy thing.)

So when an overworked mother of six missed her cycle and couldnt feed another mouth in 9 months, she went to the witch and came away with tea and massages until her flow began again.

When a young girl was abused by an uncle, a teen raped by her boyfriend or soldiers on the road…

When a couple came together, the husband fearful of how much blood there had been last time his wife gave birth and how tired she had been months afterward. Or the wife eager to help her husband in the fields so they could earn enough to move away to a farm of their own.

The lives of our ancestors were not so unlike ours in motivation.

And the midwife knew how to bring about what was desired.

It was between her and her client. And the moon.

Birthing, too, was utterly private. Even the father was not allowed. 
Womb business was never meant to be a public spectacle, nor up for public debate.
There are ways the new medicines and old practices can progress hand in hand. Part of the issue is “old wise women” out of touch with the hacked and messed up bodily systems the modern person deals with, and their natural remedies failing. This fuels the anti-herbal prejudice of the white coats, doctors who can see and understand the science at work. Yet are often no closer to a solution themselves, and do their best to prescribe something that deals with the worst symptom and brings in a host of others.
I believe many herbal remedies aren’t taking the way they used to. Or are taking longer, having less effect, etc. 

I believe this confuses the wise women who know what worked for their granny. And the results that natural remedies DO get confound the doctors and scientists!
In the past, this battleground got very bloody. Women in black with herbs across from men in white coats with chemicals and surgery.

Even today in some Appalachian Mountain communities, doctors are not welcome. And in most city hospitals, herbs and oils are heavily criticized and practically illegal.
It is time to end this feud.

We all need each other’s medicine, the world is sick and too many people are hurting.

As with religion, the way forward for medicine is Progressive.

A doctor who will refer you to an herbalist if that’s what you need to heal. Or do a surgery if that is truly in your best health.

And a shaman who will tell you to get your ass to the doctor when your physical body needs it.
Every person who stewards health, the gateway of existance that is the womb, or the threshold between Life and Death is a special soul with much laying on their shoulders. Many have come to this life loaded with innate knowledge of healing from ancestors or past lives spent in this field.

We all need each other, every tool we can possibly have, for the sake of the patient.
And women need the consent, trust, education, privacy, and empowerment that working with witches over their cycle used to give them.
Witchery has always been about women’s rights and bodily autonomy. It’s known by other names now, but maybe it shouldn’t be.

A tidbit to help you discover the people behind this amazing Archetype: Black as a color repells negative energy. Wise women have always known how to deal with the haters. 
I’m with the Witches. And Progressive Medicine. (Look it up, it’s a thing!)


*I never intend to bring up negative info without the balance of Hope. If this has distressed you, PLEASE look up Medical Medium by Anthony William! Website, books, Instagram, Facebook. I can attest from personal experience and recommending it to someone worse off than I, this protocol WORKS!! There truly is hope, we can all heal and enjoy life again! More on this later, I just couldn’t leave anyone sad or in fear.


Womb Words: Herbal Control

It’s time to put some details together about Abortion that have been floating in the atmosphere. Im pretty surprised it’s not more common knowledge, but if no one else is going to hop on this particular topic, I will.

Did you know that there are plants out there that will induce a miscarriage? Meaning, close to a dozen plants (in their natural and God created state) exist on this earth to give a woman control over her fertility cycles.

What does that tell you about God?

What it tells me is that God trusts women and wants them to have a choice about when, how, and how many children they have.

I can hear the arguments because I grew up with them, and because they used to be mine. I’ll walk you through roughly the same thought process I had.

It is not a credible argument to attempt a loose symbolism between those plants and “the forbidden fruit.” (Which was forbidden for a reason- knowledge of good and evil, i.e. Self doubt and Overthinking. Not forbidden because it was a pleasure or an escape or a medicine)

After Eden, if all that occurred in precisely the terms of the King James Bible, even a literalist must be convinced that no where did God mention leaving forbidden plants around merely to tempt us.

And lest anyone bring up The Tempter, all he could create were illusions. These plants are very real.

SO! Into the breach, dear friends.

Let’s discuss this, since emmenogouge plants mean God had family planning, up to and including abortions, in mind.

Some may argue that since there are many beneficial attributes to these herbs that support fertility, menopause, and PMS as well as healthy labor and delivery, that the abortofacient properties are an example of misusing the herb.

Yet there are herbs whose sole purpose lies in the process of initiating and completing abortion.

So, where does that leave us?

I conjecture that what grieves and disgusts many into impassioned frenzies against the proceedure is the sheer medical gore and apparent ruthlessness that the modern abortion and coat hanger era conjures.

With this, I must address The Silent Scream. Many anti-choice proponents refer to this movie often, and many pro-choicers don’t know how to follow it.

When I was considering my own choices and deciding on an abortion, I came across the information in The Silent Scream.

I lurched back from my computer, crying and gibbering to Heaven that I could not, would not, do that if the fetus would be so conscious.
I’m not a monster, no woman is. I have experienced a miscarriage of a wanted child, long awaited pregnancy and difficult birth of a wanted child, this was all hard enough without causing pain to another human organism.*
I asked God that if this was truly the best plan for my life, I needed proof my heart could resonate with that at under 20 weeks the living tissues forming wouldn’t truly be suffering. Spirit told me to Google scientific papers about fetal pain experience.

This led me to the knowledge that, like many facts put forth by the “Pro-Life” movement, their understanding of the stages of fetal development is scientifically off. 

It is true that near 8 weeks the muscular system forms enough to REFLEX. It is these reflexes to stimulii that appear to exhibit what we would equate as a response to pain.

However, the NEURAL CONNECTION in the brain that processes the experience of pain from stimulus to sensation is NOT developed until closer to 24 weeks. Barely 1% of abortions occurr around then, almost exclusively medically necessary to save the grieving mother’s life. I may have read or at least find it highly credible that in those cases the poor dear would be given at least as good of lethal injection as an inmate…
What this scenario of emotive constructs tells me as a student of human nature is that for the vast number of babies who are prepared for, wanted, or loved, we humans tend to obsess in the possibility of how soon they can experience our world on the outside. Anthropomorphic personification is more rampant in this generation than any other. And that’s fine! But we must be aware of it and know where to draw the line.

*I said human organism above because we do share that identity. But it is not yet classified as a being. With the pregnancy that resulted in miscarriage at 10 weeks, I had already been reading on baby development and talking to it. Yet scientifically that makes as much sense as petting a rock. It’s all in one’s perspective. Really it just has to do with how wanted the baby is. Pregnancy with my daughter was much the same way, and while I was being told by pro-life friends and family that “Of course she can hear you” and so on, I knew within my Self and body that it was pointless to be carrying on conversations and bonding until well after 20 weeks. I felt nothing but some bodily discomfort until then. 

Close to 24 weeks with her, I began to feel suddenly unalone, like when someone is watching you or you thought you were the only one in a room.

I have since seen energy scans of the female body at times in a woman’s cycle and duration of pregnancy to birth, confirming that the energy doubles and swirls as the second consciousness begins to inhabit.

Not to go entirely woo-woo, but that is exactly the vision I had when we thought we were pregnant years previous and I was trying to feel like bonding before 20 weeks. Before then, the consciousness/soul of the new person just peeps in at the new digs, but remains seperate until those neural connections are fully formed.

Talk to your blueberry, your Blip, rub your lime and cherish your lemon. But the child you will birth and love is not there yet. 

Take a load off. I know you’re excited, but you still have some months to focus on yourself.
I find it tragic that because of The Silent Scream and subconscious cultural trend towards early personhood, a good doctor skilled at a medical proceedure was put off forever by something humans were perhaps not meant to see.

There is no tube to flinch away from with an herbal abortion, but as the herbs take affect and the placenta detaches, the uterus contracts, would not an observed fetus also be seen in the muscular reactions of distress? Oxygen supply going, heart failing, blood thinning, body squishing to bits in the contractions.

I am no stranger to these facts, and the truths of what abortions are, herbal or otherwise.

YET. These herbs were supplied by the creator. This harsh reality is a sometimes necessary one.
Any death carries some tragedy.

Life is precious. All life.

Yet we are so removed from the sights of death that this one remaining vestige is like a neanderthal’s ghost to be erradicated from our modern consciousness.

All life IS life.
And death is often a part of it.

How many animals have died for your life, your health, your food preferences? How many more will? And that mountain of blood, death, pain, and children and parents torn from each other is still not always a catalyst for vegetarianism. 

Why not?

Because I believe we humans are not truly unsettled by death.

How could we be, and have survived this long? Slaughtering animals used to be a celebration, or at least a family past time. 

Blood doesn’t bother us as much as we like to think. And I’m not here to say that it should.

We are closer in some ways to our ancestors than to our ascendant potential.

But we are oh so far from our ancestors in others.